


to distract my heart from missing you

by thunderstorms (fictionalparadises)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Dream Smp, Dream is in Prison, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Reminiscing, Romance, george pays him a visit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29113185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalparadises/pseuds/thunderstorms
Summary: Dream isnothomeless. Or he didn't use to be, anyway.Alternatively: George visits Dream in prison.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 123





	to distract my heart from missing you

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for like a good two weeks and i wasn't gonna post it at first but then i was like,,,, why not lmao so here you go!!! 
> 
> hope you enjoy <3

Warm hands cover his eyes. Dream lets them guide him as he takes a few steps forward. 

“Okay, we’re here.” The hands fall away, and George orders, “Keep your eyes closed.”

Dream rights himself and tries to find his balance, obediently keeping his eyes closed. He can feel the sun on his face, tall grass swishing past his ankles on the small strip of exposed skin between his leather boots and his pants.

There’s shuffling beside him, then, “You can look now.”

He slowly opens his eyes, squinting as he tries to adjust to the bright light.

In front of him, in the middle of the clearing, is a cottage with red-tiled roofs and white walls. Smoke curls from the chimney, sunlight reflecting from the roof in soft flashes of white. Dream’s eyes trail the house, down to the wall that’s covered in ivy and the small flower bed in front of it with blue peonies scattered around the dirt.

“So, do you like it?” George asks casually, though the small waver in his voice betrays pride and soft glee.

Dream turns to glance at him, George with his goggles pushed up into his hair and sun-kissed freckles and bright grin. “I love it,” he breathes, the beginnings of a smile breaking through the serious expression on his face.

George beams back at him, staring for a moment, eyes twinkling, before he wraps his hand around Dream’s wrist and tugs him along. “It’s not entirely finished yet, but I’ve been working on this for days, and it’s nearly done anyway, so I didn’t want to wait any longer,” he rants as he draws Dream up the steps after him. “I’ve been out all day looking for honeycomb all day so I could make candles, and then earlier I was….”

Dream barely hears him talk and instead watches him, failing to withhold a smile as George wildly gestures to everything around the house.

 _Their_ house.

⚜

Dream’s shoulder hurts—he’s pretty sure he dislocated it somewhere in between jumping off obsidian towers while giving chase to Tommy and fighting with Tubbo up the mountain. If he did, he must’ve set it back as he led them to his base, but he can’t exactly remember.

It doesn’t matter now.

His entire body hurts, actually, so it’s useless to focus on his shoulder. There’s a cut on his thigh that’s still bleeding, though it’s been thoroughly cleaned by Sam when he was pushed through decontamination.

Dream staggers forward at the shove in his back and supports himself with one hand against the wall to prevent from eating dirt. He turns around to snarl at whoever pushed him but he doesn't; the harshness in his eyes is no longer there, the bite in his voice dissolved.

He’s too tired for this. He needs to think, evaluate, go through the steps, see where it went wrong.

Sam looks at him. Where an icy coldness had set his face at first, it’s molten to pity, softening his features slightly. Dream nearly laughs.

“How did we get here, Dream?” Sam sighs out at last, shaking his head a little, his hands dropping to his sides.

Dream shrugs. “I could try and explain. But you wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“Aren’t you done with the games? It’s over.” Sam sounds tired.

There’s a whistle in his lungs when he breathes that he can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how many times he coughs. Dream backs against the wall and slowly slides down the rough obsidian until he’s sitting down, knees propped up, arm slung over. “Is it?”

Sam shakes his head again. “You didn’t win, Dream. Not today, and you’re never gonna get another chance to try again.” He folds his arms, armor creaking, the sword on his back shifting with the movement. “Look at what you did. Look at what you ruined. Does it mean nothing to you?”

“I regret it. Some of it,” Dream replies coolly, tilting his head back until it’s resting against the wall. He can see Sam through the slants of his eyes like this, just barely, the two men that accompany him standing behind him immovably. It’s supposed to be threatening, a warning sign, but Dream almost smiles, knowing that it’d take all three of them to stop him.

If he really tried, he could break out easily. They wouldn’t be able to stop him if he actually wanted to escape. 

Sam tilts his head, frowning. “Why?”

“Because I lost.” Dream draws in a rattling breath. His eyes flick to Sapnap, just for a second, but it’s enough to see the intense rage there, the hurt, the disappointment. He’s known Sapnap for long enough to know that the way his jaw ticks isn’t out of anger, but in attempt to stop himself from crying. The knowledge that he’s the cause of it fractures something inside his chest. “I lost everything.”

There’s blood underneath his nails that the cold stream of the shower couldn’t get rid of.

When they finally leave, locks clicking into place behind them, lava sizzling quietly, the silence is almost overwhelming.

Dream welcomes his solitude with open arms.

⚜

Living with George is cozy, and it’s _good,_ and it’s mainly something he’s not used to—the domesticity of it, the homely atmosphere, the being together. He’s used to living alone and spending minimal time at home, but now… now he looks forward to going back every single day, to trudge through the woods and hop over fallen trees, to undo his bow from his back and unsheathe his daggers on the table. He looks forward to kicking off his boots in the hallway and calling out for George, voice echoing through the house. He looks forward to drifting through the rooms to look for him, sometimes finding him still in bed fast asleep, or outside up to his wrists in dirt to plant flowers, or curled up in an armchair in front of the fireplace with a book in his lap.

On rainy days, when Dream doesn’t have tasks to tend to in town and he’s free to spend the entire day at home, he watches George bake bread in the kitchen, chin propped up in his hand as he sits at the counter. His eyes will trace the movements of George’s arms, the way his hair sways when he kneads the dough, the brush of his hand as he accidentally smears flour all over his face.

On sunny days, they’ll go out to hunt together, or they’ll spend hours gathering mushrooms for this stew George’s been wanting to make for weeks ("Weeks, Dream. _Weeks._ "). Dream will glance at him when they’re crouched on a branch high up in trees, and he won’t know what to call the feeling in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.

They watch the sunset together from their roof, George shuffled close to Dream to get as much body heat as possible, and Dream holds him like it will be the last time he does.

⚜

His thigh has healed nicely, though his muscles are still sore. He’s spent the majority of the last 24 hours sitting against the wall, contemplating every choice that has lead up to where he is now.

What he told Sam was true—he regrets it. But not all of it.

He’s been expecting this visit all day, but it stupidly enough still surprises him to see Tommy walk in, without armor, without weapons.

How different the situation had been yesterday.

And still, Tommy is… nice to him.

They talk. Seconds seep into minutes, minutes bleed into hours. Dream gets to his feet and shows Tommy the books, tells him about his plans, lets him know that it’s not so bad, confinement. “At least I’ll have time to think,” Dream waves it off, and it’s the one thing he’s certain of—he’ll have a myriad of time in here.

Tommy looks at him with a glaze in his eyes that Dream can’t decipher, and to say that it’s bothering him is an understatement.

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” he says. Is it the truth? Is he actually sorry? He doesn’t know.

It doesn’t matter.

Tommy seems inclined to forgive him, needs that steady hand on his shoulder to guide him like Dream craves George’s the way he did when he led him to their home for the first time.

There’s a handful of books in his chest that Tommy scribbles some words in, and while he does, Dream sags against the wall again, returning to his regular position with one leg folded, one propped up, an arm stretched out across his knee.

“Who do you miss the most, Dream?” Tommy suddenly asks, turning to him.

He meets Tommy’s gaze for a moment, then turns away and closes his eyes, readjusting his head against the wall.

Tommy safely stashes the books in the chest and asks again.

Dream doesn’t answer.

⚜

He wakes up one night because George is shaking his arm. “Dream!”

“What?” He mumbles groggily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Look!” George turns to the window and points to what’s beyond it.

It takes Dream a few seconds to realize what he’s looking at, because at first he thinks it’s rain, but then he notices that it’s silver. “I thought Starfall wasn’t until next week,” he says.

Hundreds of stars tumble down the night sky, swimming through the inky black before they fade out.

The covers pool around George’s waist and he kicks them back, hopping out of bed to open the window. Dream nearly whines at the loss of contact, sudden cold brushing his skin where George’s warmth was mere seconds ago.

George rolls his eyes and pushes open the window before he steps outside. “C’mon, idiot.”

Dream really doesn’t want to leave the warm comfort of their bed, but George is already out on the balcony, so he pulls loose the blanket and drapes it over his shoulder before hesitantly stepping outside.

It’s breathtaking.

Silver dashes rain down the void and burn up right before they reach the horizon. It’s like falling stars but thousands of them at the same time.

Dream comes up to George from behind and gently pulls him back against his chest, wrapping them both in the blanket.

George beams at the sky, eyes trying to take in every single star at once. Silver twinkles in the brown of his irises as he glances back at Dream. Then he raises his hands to twine his fingers around Dream’s wrists, tugging him impossibly closer.

Love. It’s a big word, one that Dream hasn’t used very often throughout his life. It still tastes foreign on his tongue whenever he says it out loud. 

But love is the only word fitting enough to describe what he feels in that exact moment.

⚜

Dream gets used to the quiet pretty quickly, if only because once he starts paying attention, he finds that it’s not so quiet after all. The lava sizzles as it burns, all day long, and where it splatters against obsidian, the black stone hisses in response.

He gets used to the humidity. He likes heat, though this is one that wraps around him in a nearly suffocating manner, sticking to his skin and making the walls close in on him.

It’s fine. He can’t see anything if he closes his eyes anyway.

He thinks long and hard about what to write in the endless supply of books he has, but the words clog up inside his brain. There’s things he wants to say, _needs_ to say, but they’re not meant to be written on paper.

They are only meant for a specific person.

He’s been expecting this visit since the first day he was put in his cell, though it surprises him when he hears the redstone faintly crackle to life—he hadn’t expected him to show up for at least another few weeks.

Dream keeps his eyes closed until he’s certain the lava has cascaded down again, if only because he’s not sure he can bear the sight of him without his heart splintering in his chest.

They haven’t talked in weeks. Months, even.

For all he thought he was prepared, when Dream opens his eyes, the breath still gets knocked out of his lungs. George stands before him, illuminated in soft shades of orange by the lava, his hair longer than it was when Dream last saw him. His hands are limp at his sides.

George's eyes are set, a mixture of emotions swirling around that Dream can’t decipher, burning with bright intensity as they stare at him.

He looks breathtaking. 

“Hello, George,” Dream says softly.

George’s shoulder shake slightly at his words, the whisper of a shudder. Then he sucks in a sharp breath to gather himself and sits down a few feet away from him, crossing his legs. “Hello, Dream,” he replies.

Words that Dream wants to say are thick in the air. He’s been thinking about what to say to George for the past weeks, came up with the perfect sentences to try and explain, but he can’t seem to find them anymore. They are lost in the magnitude of feelings that washes over Dream.

He is vividly reminded of everything he’s lost—fresh bread, blue peonies, sunlight streaming in through the windows, nights spent curled up together, hands brushing as they walked, laughs shared over breakfast, lit fireplaces and rows of candles, soft kisses in the morning. 

The words don’t come easy. But eventually, they come.

If it all stays at surface-level, if George refuses to dig any deeper, to reveal any more of himself, then Dream takes the full blame for it.

It’s not until George gets to his feet with the announcement that he should probably go and they’re both standing, staring at each other, that George opens his mouth and says, “I—I don’t know what I could have done differently, Dream. But this… this is something I can’t fix. And it’s not something I can forgive either.”

Softly, Dream says, “I know.”

“Was it worth it?” George asks after a moment of silence, tension crackling in the air like static.

Dream stares at the ground under his feet before he finally, slowly, meets George’s gaze. “I think you know the answer to that.”

_No. Yes. A little bit of both._

Had it all been for nothing? The buckets of paint, the bags of flour, the hooks on the wall? Had they kept the house and tended the flowers in the garden only to forget it had grown into something bigger than just the two of them?

“I’m sorry, George,” Dream whispers, voice a little hoarse. He’s never been good at expressing his feelings. He’s always been a little crooked. But this is it, the truth, bare and cold and cutting. He’s holding it up in his palms and can only hope that George sees the genuineness of it.

George’s nostrils flare. He looks at Dream, eyes searching his face for a long moment. There’s a silver lining in his eyes. “I hate you,” George breathes shakily, then stumbles into Dream’s arms.

Dream carefully wraps his arms around George’s shaking shoulders and pulls him closer to his chest, wishing he could bottle up the feeling, knowing he won’t get this again in maybe forever. “I know.” 

He closes his eyes. George’s hands twist into the fabric of Dream’s shirt, tightening, trying to pull him closer.

When they finally break apart, there are dark stains on the collar of Dream’s shirt. He offers George a watery smile as he wipes the stray tears from George’s cheeks, red and stained.

“Please,” Dream mumbles. “No tears for me.”

George shakes his head and lifts his hand to grip Dream’s, just for a second. Then he drops his arms to his sides and takes a step back. He knocks on the obsidian three times and Dream listens as the redstone flares to life at Sam’s command.

“I won’t tell you that I miss you,” George speaks up.

Unspoken words hang heavy in the air between them, so thick it almost chokes down Dream’s lungs.

A quiet bang echoes through the prison as the platform reaches Dream’s cell. George shuffles back on it and Dream might be imagining it, but he swears George’s hands are trembling.

Before George’s other feet has landed on the stone, he spins back and crashes back into Dream’s arms.

One last time.

Dream buries his face in the crook of George’s neck and knows the part that George didn't say: _I won’t tell you that I miss you,_ _but I do._

Much is said in the unsaid.

 _I won’t tell you that I miss you,_ Dream thinks, _but I miss you, too._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! please leave a comment or come talk to me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sundaycore) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/sundaycore) <33


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